


Stay Beside Me

by Scioneeris



Series: Stay Beside Me, Darling (I Need You) [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Eventual Cafe AU, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Harry likes sweets, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other, Slow Build, Slow Burn, theo bakes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27599972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scioneeris/pseuds/Scioneeris
Summary: AU. EWE?In the end, Harry's just tired. He wants something different.That different might be Theodore Nott. Jr.If he could just trust those irritating little feelings...
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Series: Stay Beside Me, Darling (I Need You) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2017763
Comments: 28
Kudos: 92





	1. As the dust settles

**Author's Note:**

> The world needs more Theo x Harry. Here ya go.  
> (Fic is already written. I'm posting as I edit.)

In the end, Harry's too exhausted to puzzle through all of that. The day has taken a lot out of him, along with dying—sort of—getting rid of the Elder Wand, breathing freely for the first time in his entire life and more. A lot more. It's getting harder to keep it straight in his head though. He’d really like to zone out for a little bit. Long enough to remember important things like— _who he is_ and _what does he want to do with his life_.

But really, he just needs to find a place to forget for a little while. He’s fought everyone else’s battles for too long. It can’t be too much to ask for some peace and quiet in a corner somewhere. Harry pokes through the rubble and debris, hardly seeing any of it or the people. He’s never had to process so many complex emotions before and all he knows is that it kind of hurts and it kind of doest.

He falls asleep in a corner somewhere, within sight of McGonagall and Hagrid. Ron and Hermione are with the Weasleys, still grieving over the lives lost. He can hear them, even if he can’t see them, but he can’t _join_ them.

It hurts. He knows it hurts.

But he's so _tired_.

All that pain has to go somewhere and he's scared it will come to _him_.

So he does the only thing he has strength for. He sleeps.

* * *

When he wakes, it's a tad warmer than it was when he drifted off. Someone's put an oversized jumper over him, like a blanket. He's vaguely aware of a presence—muted—within arms' reach by his feet.

It takes a moment before he can see clearly and when he does, Harry's not sure what to think. It's a Slytherin. There’s evidence in a silver-green tie and the crisp, clean haircut of a pureblooded student. Yet—he knows this Slytherin. One of Draco's cronies—no, wait. One of Draco's _former_ friends.

Or something.

It's Theodore Nott Jr.

Pale, thin, and gaunt in a way that suggests the kinds of hardships that Harry's all-too-familiar with. He's eating something in a bowl, his white-knuckled grip giving away the tension in his body. His wand sticks out from his tall-boots, within easy reach, if necessary.

There’s an old memory teasing at the back of his mind. Of Theodore trying to study, head down, eyes focused on his books—before Draco and Blaise got involved, teasing mercilessly in that way always made Harry want to hex him. Even Slytherins, he thinks, didn’t deserve to be harassed like that.

He’s learned better through all of this. Not everything is good. Not everything is _evil_. There are shades of grey in everything and everyone has a little bit of both. The same shade of grey that allowed him to protect his friends—and battle old Voldysnort head-on.

Something in the way that Theodore sits, not quite hunched over, but nowhere near relaxed, trips one of Harry’s protective triggers. He sees the posture and knows it for what it is and also knows, that maybe, he won’t be able to help.

Harry's heart _hurts_.

Something must give him away though, because Theodore's head jerks towards him as if feeling his gaze and freezes in place.

For a long moment, they stare at each other. Silent, unmoving, unsure.

Harry can’t find words, but Theodore doesn’t offer any.

They continue to stare, until Theodore looks away. Slowly, he resumes eating. It looks like soup.

Harry’s stomach clenches. He wonders if he should eat something.

"Reporters are here," Theodore says, carefully. He tips his head in the far direction of the Great Hall where they've all congregated in the aftermath. "Professors are keeping them back."

Harry sits up with care, the mysterious jumper sliding down to his lap. He feels miserable and dirty from all the grime and debris sprinkled over him. A shower would be good, a bath would be divine. He wonders how long it'll be before he can have one.

"Hungry?" Theodore asks, when Harry doesn't comment.

Harry shrugs. Food's probably a good idea, but he doesn't know if he can handle it. Doesn't think he can handle _not_ having it.

Theodore frowns, but he doesn't say anything to that. Instead, he looks to the side and waits until an old house elf glances his way. A house elf that looks as if its been hovering at the corner for that exact cue. He tips his head towards Harry and gives a tiny shrug. The house elf studies them both, then pops out of existence.

When the house elf pops back, Harry flinches. He didn't expect it to return so _close_ to where they are. But there's a steaming hot cup of something thick and milky—a thin porridge, maybe? He can't tell, but it smells warm and savory.

The house elf settles the great cup in his hands, concern lining its wide, wrinkled forehead. Harry notes that it's decently dressed, though he doesn't know the house colors or crest on its uniform.

"Thank you, Tribis," Theodore says, softly. He does not look at Harry. "I'm done with mine." He holds out the bowl. "It was very good. Thank you."

Tribis takes the bowl and bows, before popping out again.

Silence fills the space between them, but somehow, it's not as awkward as it was before. Harry holds the cup until the warmth has crept past his hands and he feels he can stomach a sip or two. Somehow, he does.


	2. Let's Make Our Own Path

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Theo have feelings. They may or may not talk about them. 
> 
> Ok. They ignore them. They ignore them A LOT.

Harry doesn't even know how it came to this, but he's in the prefect bathroom again, but this time with a half-naked Theodore standing beside him. They're both absolutely filthy from the Final Fight and a nice hot bath sounds _heavenly_.

But Harry still doesn't know _how_ he ended up here. Not that he's complaining exactly, he would just like to know.

For future reference.

Just in case it happens again.

Or doesn't.

Maybe.

He doesn't know for sure. But he does know that it's embarrassing. Even though he's just won a literal war for the Wizarding World, the thought of his thin, wounded body isn't something he's proud of.

At least, until he sees the scars that mark Theodore's pale skin. Hideous, ugly scars. As if—as if someone has deliberately inflicted them. But not Theodore, himself—no, someone else. Someone that Theodore could not stop.

Harry feels a white-hot-rush of anger in the pit of his belly. _A person_ did that, he thinks. _A human_.

But Theodore doesn't pay him any mind. He strips down in short order and immediately pours several potions into the very large bathtub. Lovely scents fill the air and generous suds cover the surface.

Harry tries not to stare as Theodore slips into the water all curated elegance and barely visible tension. Somehow, he finds his own way to the tub and numbly slips in as well.

They don't speak as they sit there, up to their necks in the almost-too-hot soapy water. But after a while, Theodore ducks beneath the suds and then hikes himself up to sit on the edge of the tiled floor.

He shampoos his hair with quick, efficient fingers and his wand—curiously kept close at hand—is used to rinse and style his hair. He summons a bath towel to drape around his shoulders as he sits with his feet in the water for another ten minutes.

Harry wonders if he's done yet.

"...need help?" Theodore asks, at last. He is very carefully not looking at Harry, but the strain—the _tension_ in his slender body—is still _there_.

Can he help? Harry's not sure. Maybe yes. Maybe no. It's strange. Awkward. It's just a bath and yet, it's not something that he thinks anyone would actually offer to help him with. Not when he can move his arms and legs, unlike some of the others.

He was lucky.

Lucky Harry Potter.

He can take a bath. He can even keep himself from drowning, just watch!

Except, it would be kind of nice to have help. He's never had that kind of help before. The thought of someone _helping_ with such a mundane, yet basic necessity is a slice of intimacy that Harry's never considered before.

He's never had any offers to consider before. This is such new territory that he's afraid to break ground. If it crumbles and falls because he guessed wrong, it would be—bad.

But no one has ever prepared him for conversations like this and Harry doesn't know what to say. Instead, he stares in a mixture of embarrassment, panic and whatever that unidentifiable bundle of indescribable things are— _stuck in his chest_ , like, right next to his heart.

Ow. That hurts.

Harry would like to sit underwater for a while. At least, until his brain comes up with something better than silence.

"Your hair," Theodore clarifies. He gestures to the shampoo bottles as if Harry isn't still staring at him, speechless.

Oh. _Oh_.

And now Harry finds that breathing is hard. He shouldn't trust. Not this person, not a _Slytherin,_ but Theodore has done nothing suspicious really, except for actually being there. And offering to help wash his hair.

The thing is, Harry _would_ like help to wash his hair. It's just hard to figure out how to say yes. He's brave—somewhere, somehow—but what if it's _too much_ and he _can't stand it_? What if he's been washing his hair wrong for all of his life?

A hysterical giggle might actually slip out, if Harry was less frozen in panic and more, blushingly interested. He wonders if he could actually turn his back to a stranger after everything that's happened.

It's _frightening_.

Time seems to crawl by.

After a beat, Theodore sighs. He pulls his feet from the water and stands, wand tucked behind his ear. It's an almost familiar gesture and Harry thinks back to where he's seen that before.

_Luna Lovegood. Odd habit._

"I am...sorry," Theodore says. "I did not mean...to...make you...uncomfortable. At all." He gives the vaguest tilt of his head that might be some sort of pureblood acknowledgement for something.

Harry doesn't know. He's reeling from the awfully formal wording and the fact that he's missing out on those lovely hands actually shampooing his hair.

_OW._ That really does hurt.

Harry rubs at the dull ache in his chest, because while pain is nothing new—this pain _is_. He tries not to watch Theodore leave. He still doesn't understand why it bothers him. It shouldn't, but it does.

Theodore summons another towel to dry off the rest of him. He applies generous handfuls of a pale green potion to his scarred skin without the slightest hesitation Once done, he calls the house elf back, Tribis, to ask for clean clothes. He orders two sets.

One for himself, one for Harry.

Harry splashes to the edge of the tub, feeling ungainly and graceless. He tries to do like Theodore did and wash the grit and grime from his hair. Ducking under the water, he surfaces sputtering. It's—messy. It always is.

For one heart-stealing moment, he wonders what it would've felt like to have Theodore's hands in his hair. Those long elegant fingers twining through the tangled strands, working the suds in and rinsing them out afterward. Combing through his hair, flicking the water off of the ends, shaping it into something less…messy.

The very fantasy of it makes his breath hitch.

He can't do that. That's too much to imagine while Theodore is still within sight.

_Don't go there. Mustn't go there...he's not...into you..._

The mental chant doesn't get him as far as he'd like, but Harry's had practice at hiding this side of himself. It wouldn't be the first time he's admired a well-built body or handsome features.

Despite the scars, Theodore has some nice features. A finely sloped nose, a slight curl to his chocolate brown hair at the nape of his neck, depth in his hazel eyes and that _jawline_.

Harry resolutely ducks under the water again. He barely understands how the magic in the bath works, but he's glad to see that the messy, murky rinse of his hair doesn't mix with the rest of the clean water. It seems magically siphoned away somehow.

The absence of Moaning Myrtle is another detail he's desperately glad for. Then again, every time he's ever come to this bath, it's been traumatic or instructive in one way or another.

A knock at the door is the only warning he gets before Hermione and Ron appear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Harry! He just can't catch a break yet...LOL. Don't worry. He'll get his moment soon.


	3. Do You Remember Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes. 
> 
> Things change. 
> 
> Some things stay the same.

Theodore freezes, wrapped in his towels. He eyes them warily all the way through the door and around the edge of the in-ground tub. He says nothing and the two Gryffindors do not acknowledge him.

Before anyone can remedy that, Theodore slips out—fully dressed—without a goodbye or a backward glance.

Harry tries not to think what could have been, if his friends hadn't shown up. There's too much out of reach there and he can't bear it.

"Alright, Ron?" he asks, noting slight flush in his friend's face. That's kind of new, but also kind of Ron, so he doesn't press it. Best to just find out what they need from him. They would leave him alone, otherwise. They know that he needs space. Lots of space. They trust that he won’t fall apart when he goes in search of it.

Perhaps he lingered too long this time.

"Oh, _alright_ ," Hermione huffs. "I just wanted to check on you because—at least you’re fine.” She spins on her heel and heads for the door to give them some privacy. "What was _he_ doing here?"

Harry blinks at her. He doesn't understand the question because _nothing happened._

"Harry," Hermione prompts, impatient. "He didn't—you know? You're alright?"

Oh. That he understands. Harry nods. "M'fine, Mione," he says.

She’s asking because there’s pain behind those words. She’s suffered at hands that belonged to pureblooded Slytherins before. She worries for him. So he lets her, because they _are_ friends and he knows that she cares.

Ron watches her go and then stares down at Harry in the sudsy water. He suddenly looks much older than his actual age. As if _he_ was the Chosen One suffering through all of Dumbledore’s machinations. "You alright?"he asks, because now it's his turn.

Harry thinks he manages a smile. It's hard to tell, because everything feels so numb. "...alright," he agrees. "Come in?"

There's a slight shrug, before Ron nods. He strips out of his things and starts to talk about what's happening in the Great Hall. He's remarkably composed, considering how red his eyes are and how hoarse his voice is. He needs a break as much as Harry does and that is probably the real reason why Hermione came in search of him.

It’s a soft gesture that makes his heart hurt.

They won't be alright for a long time, Harry thinks. None of them will be, but that's to be expected. They've survived a great deal, after all.

***

Harry doesn't find Theodore again, after that. Instead, he roams about Hogwarts-In-Repair and talks to students, professors and more, while avoiding the reporters and trying to figure out what to do next.

Normally, Hermione would help him decide, but she's part of a _couple_ now and that means, they make decisions together. It's strangely comforting to see that Ron's matured enough to make those decisions _with_ her and not impulsively on his own. They're a little clumsy and awkward, but it's almost adorable.

They'll be alright, Harry thinks. We'll all be alright.

But then there's Ginny and he doesn't know what to tell her.

And then there's Luna and they're together and Harry doesn't know what to tell _them._ He's happy in his own way that they're happy in their own way, but that's hard to put into words. So he doesn't. He just nods gravely and congratulates them with as much dignity he can manage.

"It will all work out in the end, Harry Potter," Luna tells him in her usual serene way. "You need only to trust that it will."

So Harry does.

He turns down the offering to be a professor. He pauses the plan to be an Auror. He packs a small bag of things and decides to travel.

A few years should do the trick, right?

***

He goes back to the muggle world. Leaves all the magic and unwanted fame behind. Searches for things to distract himself. Finds different places to stay and new faces to keep the darkness at bay. Days, months, _years_ , pass by in the blink of an eye.

None of it matters, until one day it does.

A small, cozy coffee shop at the corner of somewhere—and Harry isn't even sure _where_ he is anymore—and an owner with a very familiar face. That finely sloped nose, that curl of hair at the back of his neck and that _jawline_.

_Merlin_! Harry wishes he could say something dramatic to remember the moment.

Like it was magic or fate that pulled them back together, but the truth of it is that their paths just crossed naturally on their own. Almost by accident, as if they'd always eventually wind up that way.

In all of his life, Harry never imagined that he'd see a pureblooded wizard acting as a muggle, running a small muggle coffee shop. But, it's staring him in the face and he can either acknowledge it or live the rest of his life in denial.

Unsurprisingly, denial does not sound very fun at all.

It's a cozy little shop. A traditional brick-face with accents for flowers, fancy lighting and a gently worn interior that is more welcoming and nostalgic and not tired or stale. Soft colors and dozens of tasty scents entice customers to come in and _stay._

The sign in the window says the first refill is free. Harry wonders if he'll like anything on their menu, but he's hungry and the the scents wafting out of that door smell heavenly.

So Harry goes in.

He orders tea and some kind of pastry. He pays for his order with muggle money and sits at a table near one of the very tall windows. He pretends he doesn't know that Theodore Nott is making him a peaches-and-cream iced something-or-the-other or that there's a matching mini fruit tart that accompanies it.

No one seems to notice or care who he is. They don't ask him questions and they do look him in the eye.

He mumbles a thank you when a one-eyed waitress brings the tray to him. The face is almost familiar, but he can't process it either. He's seen her somewhere before, but he can't place it.

In the past few years, he's been everywhere. She could be anyone. Maybe.

Her name-tag blurs a bit and he can’t make out the name. He tries not to feel slighted by it.

So he pokes at his food and tries not to think too deeply on the whole situation. Iced-Peaches-and-cream latte is strange, sweet and surprisingly tasty. It's pretty enough to look at, until he stirs it up into a dark yellow slush, but the taste is divine.

Three bites into that fruit tart and Harry swears he's died and come back to life, _twice_ , because it's _good_. So _good_. Better than anything he's ever had in _years_. He savors the remaining bites, wishing to live in the nostalgic feeling the taste evokes.

His eyes wander as he indulges his sweet tooth, just for today. There's so much to see, that he's tempted to stay in this little town.

Not just because of Theodore.

Alright. Definitely because of Theodore.

Harry sighs into his Iced fruit latte. It's cold, fruity and creamy, sliding down his throat like liquid comfort. He studies the bustling workers and customers that flit around the cafe.

It seems as if everyone working here is nursing some kind of horrific injury. But still, they are working, competent and efficient in their manner as they keep the bustling cafe in perfect harmony. He didn't see it at first, but now, he can't unsee them.

There's magic at work here, he can tell, powerful magic, but it doesn't seem to be harmful.

Gradually, other employees seem to appear in shifts. One behind the register, one sweeping the sidewalk and another carefully rewriting the menu board. There's two more in the kitchen and another one coming in the door, wearing the same crisp black outfit that screams— _uniform_!

_Slytherins..._ he realizes, belatedly. They're all Slytherins. He's not sure how exactly he knows, just that he _knows_.

He's kind of proud of them. They've found a good place to be themselves without having to deal with the hassle of the Wizarding World and the invisible burdens the Ministry saddled on them.

He also kind of wonders if they miss it. Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. He thinks it could be a little of both—just like him.

Still, working together, peaceably, under one roof at an honest living is an admirable thing.

Honest enough, anyway. The prices are ridiculous, but the taste of everything is perfect. He doesn't know if his budget will hold up to eating out here too often, but he can afford to splurge this once. He can't afford to leave while his heart is still stuttering like this.

It feels as if he might actually be alive after all this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ehehehe. Here's where we start to have fun. Yes. It's a Magical Cafe AU. :P I need the fluff. I NEED IT. 
> 
> This was not where this fic was originally going to go, but I'm not about to argue with Theo and Harry. :P 
> 
> Enjoy the read!!

**Author's Note:**

> Not posted on FFN. I just really wanted to write some TheoxHarry. I love them. :P


End file.
